Falling Away From Blue

Israeli sniper!
what goes through your mind?
a child, wide-eyed with fear & anger,
crouched, running on the dusty streets,
past the ruined homes of friends,
bending to pick up a stone—
no, that one was too big,
another fits inside the palm.
you see this through your sights
& you aim for the head.

I was late, didn’t bring a pad of paper or a pen
to a workshop — hadn’t registered that
I might have to work. My subconscious though
at work, perhaps I didn’t want to be there.
Not when I sat down anyway, at the front,
where the only empty chair was, within reach
of the teacher, a problem child, who with a sigh
had to be given a pen and paper to work on.

‘What matters to you about poetry?’

I muttered a few things about line breaks,
brevity, emotion, Pablo Neruda and humour.
Then it was into the warm-up: quick flash
lines, responding to prompts, which lightened
my ‘denim blue mood.’ Fun with alliteration
‘rumbling down the rudimentary road.’
‘An aubergine and a bicycle at one in a line.’

Next, childhood memories after Bill Manhire
using the music of rhyme and near-rhyme:
‘Marmite sandwiches, all I ate, playing
with battleships, short shorts and T-shirts,
bedroom curtains with a herd of lions, zebras,
elephants and giraffes, unable to sleep
in summer, everything brown and ochre,
walking barefoot, burnt-off grass with prickles,
Star Wars, wondering who John Lennon was.’

That was OK, decided I wouldn’t leave
in the break. One poem done, onto the second.
Your direction: ‘No feelings but in things.’
My thing a moldy mandarin. Only ten words
at first, a forced economy, then twelve lines.
The mandarin went off, like a bomb.
I read the poem out: my phrasing was praised.

I felt like a pupil, receiving the approval
of the teacher. You finished with a reading
of your own poems, where you bobbed about
to the rhythm of your words. I was pleased
to get your reference to Sweet Virginia
off Exile on Main St. I liked your story
about hearing a wild, hairy James K Baxter
on stage in the Kamo High School hall
six days before he died, when you decided
you were going to be a poet.

And I wish after seeing Sam Hunt at Whangarei Boys
that I’d decided to be a poet. But I’m trying now
to arrange, as best I can, the lines I wrote
in a poetry workshop, which I had to rescue
from the wind that blew them from my hands
outside, all around the carpark. I had to chase
each page, as you watched, surely amused
at the antics of your pupil who arrived late.

I wrote this before, too rigid
the repetition thumped with certainty
like a metronomeaaaaas if the heart was
just physiology —
I asked for an explanation, but how
could anyone explainaaawhy
it happenedaaaaaaaaaaaaexactly

the man, for instance, I saw today
standing in front of his house
in shorts & slippers, who
looked at me
like blank death
— what explanation?

or why do I retain the image
from a B-grade movie I watched as a kid,
a Saturday matinee, of an elderly couple
lying on a bedaaain a ship-cabin
holding each other
as the ship sinksaaaaafor what reason?

yes, there’s an explanation
for the brown pool of coffee
in the teaspoon slowly evaporating

aaaaaaaaaabut is there an explanationaaaaaaaaaafor the last failed attemptaaaaaaaaaato start a conversation?

or why you nowaacarefully
push the chair back from the table, stand up
& walk towards the open door
where the sun is shining
on the asphalt footpath
where small pieces of broken glass asparkle.

our dog is like Frank O’Haraaaaalover of gregarious freedom!
we don’t want to train him — he’s untrainable
half wild, like a Coltrane solo
he takes free rein, takes it where it will go
he barks at everyone he sees aaa with no malice
he just wants to say hello
& tell everyone aaa he loves them
he can jump up in the air in crazy yelping pirouettes
he’s a bit of a show-off

he’s too quick footed for the big slow dogs
who can’t pin him down aaa there’s no easy walk
trotting along beside in regular rhythm
it’s all full tilt, nose down, tail up, pulling forward
choking against the collar — sudden stops
deviations aaa instant enthusiasms
abandoned for the next delicious scentaaa tiring
& exhilarating, like keeping up with Peter
when his brain’s exploding
T.S.Eliot mixed with obscenities

he sleeps close to us on the bed
any noise, 2am, 5am, & he’ll leap off
& run around barking in circles aaa it’s idiotic
& pisses us off
he wants to lick your ears in the morning
loves it when you scratch his head
he hardly eats, but likes to clean your plate
flies annoy him aaa (he’s mostly content)

he escapes often, being small & agile
always finding a new way to get out
we’re lucky he hasn’t been hit by a car
we would miss him a lotaaaabecause he’s full of the genius of life
our dog
a destroyer of shallow boredom
like Frank O’Hara.

reading Bukowski puts me in a mood,
one of those sons of bitches.
listening to Isaac Hayes’ first album,
the soul soakedaaaaaaaaain Bourbonaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagrooves,
takes me
somewhere
else

which means nothing to you, I know.
you’ve been out the front of the house
attaching purple streamersaaaaaaaaato the fence, because
it’s your mother’s
birthday.
I’ve been lying on the couch
thinking I could be
somewhere
else

the streamers wouldn’t go where you wanted.
“the wind,” you said,aaaaa“kept blowing them off”.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa— shit like this,
the incongruence of reality
& what we’ve hoped for,
it hits you hard.
you cry everything,aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayour face
turns to plasticine.

I hold you. I don’t say anything.
but I understand
how much it matters.
together
we spin a tight cocoon

it’s just turned 12.01pm
& I’m thinking
that if I’m going to be
a writer
I should use every opportunity.
‘cause I don’t live on a family estate near Boston
or get regular payments from a trust,
& I’m not looking to make it
in the captain’s tower.
besides, I like
the factory poets
the boiler makers
the post office workers breaking their backs
in an iron chair
sorting mail every day for 10 years.
but they too knew
that writing is a horse you must
stay on.
you got to follow it
until it comes in.
so
even if this is not
a winning poem
it might be
that the one I write tomorrow
is, which is something you learn
eventually,
that work is an art:
the musician must play
the orator must speak
the teacher must teach
the leader of people must lead.
what I’m saying
is that
I’m going to write
again
tomorrow at 12.01pm
on the notepads they give us at work
with the pens they give us
to write.

lying on the couch
which isn’t comfortable
even with pillows. I get stuck here
sometimes, watching children’s television,
supervising the buildingaaaaaaof Lego towers,
snatching moments of poetryaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—like a train
going past the back fence
only 10 or so metres from the couch,
carrying logs from up north.
so close, it weighs through the roomaaaaaalike a deep conscience, unavoidable.

I remember the movie
starring Robert De Niro & Gérard Depardieu.
as a kid, the Depardieu character
lies down lengthwise on a railway track
& a train goes over the top of him.
the other boy (who would grow up
to be played by De Niro)
watches, afraid.
at the end of the movie, however,
it’s the De Niro character, now an old man
who lies across the track,
his neck & legs on the rails
as a train approaches.

each time a train goes past
it’s thrilling, a worthwhile moment
—as it could be for anyone
in Kamo, Maungaturoto,
Wellsford or Helensville
who’s lying on a couch,
hanging out the washing,
or eating a meat pie in the car.

& really, there’s no need
to lie on the track
unless you’re Depardieu
or De Niro
& it’s the movies.

we quarrelled on the steps of our house,
me overbearing, softly spoken & sure.
I left thinking what for
but couldn’t turn the car around once more.

in town S was there early,
I was surprised, tongue-tied & vague.
we unloaded the signs:aaaaaaaSupport Sanford Workers,aaaaaaaSix Weeks—No Income,aaaaaaaFreedom to Strike.
they were awkward, difficult to handle.
I strained, cursed & wondered.

ten dollars was pushed into my hand—
we had hardly finished setting up!
ten dollars for the Sanford workers
way down in Timaru & Bluff.
more followed,
from a journalist with the Northern Advocate,
from a woman who lost her house in a mortgage sale,
her husband had been locked out
by the owners of the Glenbrook steel mill.
I spoke to an old guy who went on strike
in support of the wharfies in ’51,
he was a freezing worker then.
history—warm, alive & unrepentant.

still, the best part of the day
was counting the money at home together,
both of us enthusiastic:
sixty-six dollars for the Sanford workers in Timaru & Bluff.

these old theatre seatsare rusty at the base,the blue vinylhas faded to grey,they're not wherethey used to be.looking overthese Northland hillsto a wet sunset,a sliverof clear orange skybeneath the heaviestof dark clouds,the sounds of childrentalking nonsenseon the stepsof the almost derelicthouse across the street,I realise there isnowhere else.these old theatre seatsare comfortable& a good placeto look out.

I want to sit in a wooden chairI want to drink Vodka & lemonadeI want to talk while making dinnerI want to sing Dylan doing dishesI want to discuss peppers & artichokesI want to teach composition & lineI want to read without notesI want to speak plainI want to be understoodI want not to think about itI want it to be the same for youI want time to slideI want to run & playI want to walk to workI want to learn guitarI want someone to fix computersI want to stay up lateI want to sleep in a purple room

how was the trip, Burt?hi Lonnie.nice day isn’t it?you’ve sorted things out then.must have been expensive, the divorce.how much?still, things are alright now aren’t they?you were both misunderstood.those Ken & Barbie jokes were cruel.yeah, this way, follow me. I’ve been here before.what do you think of the museum?it’s a war memorial.the columns out the front are the same as the Parthenon.through here—watch your head on the waka…Te Toki a Tapiri. magnificent isn’t it?have you heard of John Pilger?no? he’s a well know journalist…you hate journalists? some of them can be…you’d have to admit it looked suspect at the time, Burt.yeah, I know you were innocent.so what are you up to now Lonnie?are they still showing repeats of the WKRP Cincinatti in the States?here we are.no you go ahead , I’ve seen it. I’ll meet you outside.

what did you think?disturbing?you didn’t know the US had been bombing Iraq for ten years?I know the Vietnam War was a long time ago Lonnie, but it’s important to remember these things.did you go to Vietnam, Burt?Gunsmoke was your big break then?what? you’ve never got the recognition you deserved.you shouldn’t get hung-up on awards, Burt.what did you think of…but he’s a different type of actor, you can’t compare.oh, here’s your taxi.no, I don’t want an autograph.I just hope you got something from the exhibition.it’s meant to be.I thought it would help. you both looked really sad when I saw you the other day. I know it can be a struggle to see things clearly…you’re OK? OK then.I’ll see you round. I probably won’t be heading your way again.some things I want to do.best of luck to you too.

I missed writing for the new millennium
so for you, Hone Tuwhare, I thought I’d write now.
one of many who will dust fresh pages with words.
tonight, with compassion, humour & grace
you walked the stage of our polytech theatre
on your sentimental journey to the North.
they called you from Kaka Point, in the South
to the place of your birth:

aaaaaa‘Send back his stubby limbs!aaaaaaSend back his bursting tinana fat with kutai,aaaaaaKina, fish-heads, salt and words.aaaaaaNgapuhi! Go and get our boy!’

while I share these Northland hills with you,
your presence alone was not enough to cloud these eyes.
what did, was seeing a man who lived life
full & vital, gentle & vulnerable,
who, at 79, read a poem for a socialist friend, a comrade.
the word, like many of the lines rolled
from your full crooked lips, was full of sincerity.
it still comes hard to me, as if others’ laughter
would burst unwanted from my mouth.
to see that fire burning, that home shared,
this is what I take from your journey north.
one day I hope to sing out ‘comrade’ to the tune
of a jazz standard (a favourite of yours)
& for people to hear it true & sing it back to me.

Thank you to Glen Colquhoun for the use of lines from his poem, 'An invitation for Hone Tuwhare to attend a poetry reading in Northland, or a Haka to Kaka Point', published in the New Zealand Listener, 2002.

Purchase poetry collection

To purchase from Steele Roberts Publisher click image above. Or send an email to vgunson@xtra.co.nz to arrange purchase. The book includes a majority of poems not published on this webpage.

"This is a book I've been keenly awaiting. We've printed a number of Vaughan's poems in Poetry New Zealand and I've come to admire and respect what he writes. His poems merge his concerns for the human and natural worlds into a unity that reflects the human condition and its expression in internal and external experience."

- Alistair Paterson, Poetry NZ editor, ONZM

"Vaughan Gunson's this hill, all it's about is lifting it to a higher level is a startling collection of poetry. Buoyed by Gunson's eye for the unusual and precise and his cadent tongue, the book mines new and familiar territory in surprising and exciting ways."